


you laughed when i looked back

by befehlvonganzunten (blueprintofyourpast)



Series: bridges [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (because she deserves the world), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Michelle Jones-centric, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Recovery, precious michelle jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueprintofyourpast/pseuds/befehlvonganzunten
Summary: There’s this list of people MJ loves or cares about or whatever. It’s not a real list. She never took a piece of paper and wrote the names down because well,lame, so it’s a list that only exists in her head.It’s not a long list either. It’s her Dad (because he’s the best person she knows), her Nan (because she’s a fucking badass), Rutger Bregman (because everyone has a celebrity crush and hers happens to be the dude who went to Davos and roasted a bunch of billionaires), May (because like MJ’s Dad, she’s the living proof that losing the love of your life doesn’t have to turn you into a bitter, dysfunctional parent), her Uncle Nick (even though he’s never around), Ned (because they have more in common than one might think), and a certain puppy-eyed loser who was already late for class on their first day at Midtown.(Surprisingly, said puppy-eyed loser made it on time on theirlastday at Midtown, so it’s fair to say that there might be hope for him yet.)...Or: A love letter to Michelle Jones and the most important people in her life.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Michelle Jones
Series: bridges [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462300
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	you laughed when i looked back

**Author's Note:**

> ugh. it’s been 85 years and i’m terribly sorry. 
> 
> this one-shot is a bit different from the rest of the series. i don’t think it’s my best work, but i really enjoyed writing it, so i hope you’re going to enjoy reading it just as much. (i also ignored the mid-credit scene, so the whole global identity reveal at the end of ffh never happened.)
> 
> the title is a direct quote from _do you_ by spoon.
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> EDIT: Got rid of a couple of grammatical errors. However, I must admit that I've given up on comma rules at this point. I always thought that my native language was overly complicated in that department, but apparently, the English language is on a completely different level. (Or I'm just stupid, who knows.) Anyway, commas are unnecessarily abundant in this fic, so apologies in advance I guess.

Contrary to popular belief, MJ doesn’t hate people.

To say that she tolerates them would be much more appropriate. Like, she doesn’t hate Flash for being a pompous asshole with the IQ of a deep-fried Mars bar, or those basic white girls for frequenting her favourite coffee shop to loudly complain about their college boyfriends and drink their weight in pumpkin spice lattes. She doesn’t hate religious fanatics for being duplicitous, fake woke kids for being phoney, or Flat Earthers for being outrageously delusional.

Why? Because hating someone is a giant waste of time and energy, and MJ takes pride in being efficient so that she can focus on issues that really matter. (You know, health care, climate change, systemic racism, animal rights, sexual freedom, etc.) She also takes pride in _not_ being stupid, and if there’s one thing hateful people have in common it’s their lack of brain cells.

Does that mean MJ genuinely likes people? Ew, no. Does it mean there’s a teeny tiny list of people she tolerates a little more than others? Maybe. Is ‘tolerating some people a little more than others’ actually a dry-witted circumlocution for – _gasp_ – love? Um, yes. She’s a rationalist, not a fucking robot, thank you very much. Feelings are great and everything. Some people are just more economical (read: reluctant) with expressing them.

So, there you have it. Michelle Jones, the great grumpy misanthrope who communicates in book quotes only? Nothing but a stupid myth her classmates came up with in freshman year because they didn’t know how to deal with her lackadaisical attitude, and because high school is this magical place where everyone needs to be labelled – and if none of the pre-existing labels seem to fit you, chances are that you’re going to end up with a label specifically made for you.

(Take Betty, for example. Too smart to be a bimbo, too uptight to be one of the alleged cool kids, and too averse to parrot authority figures to be a teacher’s pet. Put those three labels together and you get a new, more fitting one: Betty Brant, the sassy go-getter who looks like a lamb but could kill you in your sleep if she wanted to.)

_Anyway._

There’s this list of people MJ loves or cares about or whatever. It’s not a real list. She never took a piece of paper and wrote the names down because well, _lame_ , so it’s a list that only exists in her head.

It’s not a long list either. It’s her Dad (because he’s the best person she knows), her Nan (because she’s a fucking badass), Rutger Bregman (because everyone has a celebrity crush and hers happens to be the dude who went to Davos and roasted a bunch of billionaires), May (because like MJ’s Dad, she’s the living proof that losing the love of your life doesn’t have to turn you into a bitter, dysfunctional parent), her Uncle Nick (even though he’s never around), Ned (because they have more in common than one might think), and a certain puppy-eyed loser who was already late for class on their first day at Midtown.

(Surprisingly, said puppy-eyed loser made it on time on their _last_ day at Midtown, so it’s fair to say that there might be hope for him yet.)

“You were amazing up there,” he tells her when they’re on their way to his favourite ice cream parlour; the sun’s beating down on the pavement, it’s too hot to hold hands, and there’s a thin film of sweat glued to the back of her neck where some baby hair came loose from her messy top bun.

“I know.”

Lie. She totally doesn’t. 

She was nervous as fuck, rushing through the main points of her valedictorian speech like she was trying to imitate the Micro Machines Man, keeping her gaze on her boyfriend who smiled at her like she was the fucking sun or something. The gym hall was packed, the faint smell of sweat and deodorant as present as ever, and Peter’s eyes were fixed on her: brown as bronze, brimming with the kind of unbridled affection that burns you alive, and bright like a Wolf-Rayet star.

And he’s still doing it. He’s doing it _right now_. He's smiling at her, and as always, her chest swells with all kinds of fluttery nonsense. As always, she can taste another line of nerdy poetry, another comparison he’d most definitively gush over because he’s a huge astronomy nut, on the tip of her tongue.

(She’s not going to say it out loud, though. She’s not going to blow her cover and let it slip that most of the time, just _looking_ at his stupid face makes her want to throw her principles overboard and gush over _him_ because, regardless of the red-and-black suit in his backpack, _he’s_ amazing, too.)

(But, nah. She’s going to keep her mouth shut for now.)

“Did you see Principal Morita’s face when you were quoting Bukowski?”

“He was standing _behind_ me, Peter.”

“Right,” he shuffles closer, hooks his pinkie around hers; he’s a tactile person, it’s something she silently appreciates about him, “Why Bukowski, though?”

She shrugs.

“Because graduation ceremonies are pretentious. They deserve to be ruined by the literary genius of a philandering, chronically depressed alcoholic.”

He snorts and moves his fingers so that he can squeeze her hand and she squeezes right back, smirking at the memory of her lips twitching when the quote – something vaguely distressing and egregiously obscene – left her mouth.

She remembers her Nan cackling and the rest of the audience gasping in shock. She remembers her classmates whooping with glee. She remembers Peter and Ned giving her double thumbs-ups, and Principal Morita bursting into a nervous laugh as he shooed her off the podium in an attempt to retrieve the situation. She remembers catching her Dad’s proud, toothy grin.

“It was totally worth it,” she concludes, applauding herself internally for having pulled a stunt like that in front of about 200 people on such a lovely Saturday morning; Peter hums approvingly.

It’s strange. Roughly two hours ago, they officially became high school graduates and for some reason, she doesn’t feel wiser or a step closer to adulthood than she did when she received her acceptance letter. 

(She went to the cemetery and told her Mom the good news that day. She added some fresh flowers to her grave, too. Sat there next to the tombstone and rambled about how she couldn’t wait to move to Boston and kick ass in Comparative Lit, and how, at the very same time, she felt bad for leaving her family behind.)

As if on cue, she lifts her head and finds her Dad and her Nan walking a couple of feet ahead of her. The two people who raised her, arms linked as they chat with May and Happy like they’ve all known each other for years.

She sighs.

She almost didn’t recognise her Dad after the blip.

He looked _so_ old. 

He’d spent five years mourning his only child and his mother-in-law, so he was cautious at first, a bit distant even as if he was waiting for them to disappear again. Once he realised that they were going to stay, however, he fell back into his endearing old patterns – like, making omelettes for breakfast whilst bobbing his head to The Police, or yelling at the television during a Mets game.

(According to the million photographs in their living room, MJ is more or less the spitting image of her mother. Funnily enough, Amai Jones* – a chatty, jazz-loving librarian from South Brooklyn – didn’t even want to date MJ’s Dad at first. She didn’t want to waste her time with a skinny-ass white boy who was not only a terrible flirt but also a couple of years younger than her.

In the end, she fell in love with him anyway, and he took her last name and loved her back so fiercely that they held a little wedding vow renewal ceremony before she died from leukaemia. MJ was the flower girl, already quite tall for a five-year-old and mildly confused by all the crying that was going on then.

Despite his broken heart and his shitty, underpaid job at Mount Sinai, her Dad did his best to fill the gaps: he wiped away her tears that one day she came home from elementary school, covered in mud because some of the kids had pushed her into a puddle and called her a coon, and he filed several complaints until the bullies got expelled. Later, he paid for her judo class, and by the time puberty had her in its grip, he waited until she felt comfortable enough to come and talk to him about stuff like tampons, bra sizes, and her assumption that she was also attracted to girls.)

He’s a fantastic father and he always will be. He’s funny, sensitive, occasionally scatter-brained. Sometimes, she wonders if he’s ever going to fall in love again. She wouldn’t be angry if he did. He’s been working so hard to afford her a somewhat normal childhood. He deserves to be happy.

“What are you thinking about?” Peter pipes up after a while, effectively nudging her out of her reverie; his pulse is steady against the skin of her palm as they sidestep a sidewalk sign promoting some stupid special at Five Guys.

She slows down and blinks at him, takes him in to bide some time.

They made a pact not to dress up for the ceremony, so he’s wearing jeans and one of his dumb t-shirts while his hair looks like he just stumbled out of a tornado. Squinting down at her own clothes – black basketball shorts, a loose white tank top, and her favourite sneakers – she decides that they look good together.

Come to think of it they always do.

Like, last week when they went to prom? They looked objectively _stunning_ in their mismatching suits. He went in dark red, she in dark grey, and they both grinned and raised their middle fingers when the hired photographer at the gym hall screwed up his nose and told them to pose like a _cute couple_. 

(Needless to say, the photo is now the first thing she sees every time she unlocks her phone.)

As a matter of fact, they looked so damn good that earlier that night, her Dad and May – hell, even Happy – snapped about 200 pictures of them before they finally let them go to meet up with Ned and Betty (who, after some back and forth, rekindled their relationship during spring break and, in a pleasant twist of fate, both got accepted at Brown University) at the subway station.

_Speaking of their friends, parents, and parental figures…_

“I was just wondering,” she mutters, biting her lower lip and bowing her head a bit because intellectually, she’s fully aware of the fact that her qualms of conscience are completely unnecessary, “You think they’re gonna be okay without us?”

There’s a fine tremor in her voice, a small drop of uncertainty. Spidey sense or not, Peter picks up on it immediately and tilts his head at her. After all, he kinda knows her like the back of his hand by now.

He knows about her insecurities and her fears. He knows that her time at elementary school made her wary of people her age and sensitive to both blatant racial slurs and dog-whistle politics. He knows that she the bullying conditioned her to keep pretty much everyone at arm’s length, and he knows that she gets fucking angry when white people go out of her way to compliment her for being _articulate_ and _well-spoken_.

(Or when they act all surprised once they learn that even though she likes rap and hip hop, she doesn’t listen to it exclusively.)

He also knows that the blip left its mark on her. That sometimes, she can still hear the sound of her copy of _The Salt Eaters_ ** dropping to the school bus flooring, mixed with the horrific screams of their teachers and classmates as well as her own ragged breathing. He knows that it usually ends with her untangling her headphones in the middle of the night and blasting Foals at max volume to drown out the memories, and he knows that it doesn’t always work.

He knows because she told him a couple of months ago when she woke from a nightmare and felt like she was going to die again. Because she called him around midnight, asked him to come to her place, and told him about all the noise that swelled up around her when she fell to pieces in the back of that school bus. 

He knows because she cried _hard_ when he covered her ears with his hands and kissed her forehead, whispering apologies and so many _I love you_ ’s into her skin that she couldn’t do anything but cling to him and his words until sleep took them both.

“I’m actually more worried if we’re gonna be okay without them,” he laughs, and then, for some reason, his eyes widen as if he just said something incredibly offensive, “I mean, I’m not worried about _us_ ”, he blushes, “We’re gonna see each other all the time and I’m happy about that. I’m happy that Ned’s only gonna be an hour away from us and that you and I are gonna live in the same city. I _want_ that. It’s just,” he sighs and she trails his knuckles with the pad of her thumb; for someone who’s so open about his emotions, he sure does struggle with giving voice to them every now and then.

“I get it,” she says softly.

“It’s so weird, you know? We’re gonna be in New York for another ten weeks, but I already miss living here. Hell, I already miss May and her burnt casseroles.”

She snorts.

“They’re not burnt, they’re just – ”

“ _Crunchy_ , I know.”

They share a chuckle and he shakes his head like he can’t help himself. And she really _does_ get it, so she squeezes his hand again for good measure because the future is bright and exciting and fucking scary all at once.

And she’s going to miss them, too.

She’s going to miss Ned, who is not only a Star Wars purist and an excellent chess player, but also a fellow FoS and the only person allowed to make fun of her for turning into the cliché of a hysterical girlfriend whenever Peter does something stupid.

(He gained that right after the whole London debacle. Specifically, a month later when Peter was out somewhere fighting god-knows-who with some of his superhuman Fight Club buddies.

She didn’t know what the hell was going on then, but the news kept telling her that it was _something big_ , so, as part of a panic-induced knee-jerk reaction, she called Ned, who calmed her down and reminded her of all the other big stuff Peter had gone through and, miraculously, survived so far.

He reminded her of the Vulture and the plane crash, fucking Mysterio, and that one time Spider-Man had gone to space to punch a purple alien king in the face. He reminded her of all of that whilst playing Mario Kart and happily munching a bag of Doritos, and then, when it was over and Peter was back – bruised but alive – he didn’t make fun of her.

He didn’t make fun of her when she practically hurled herself into Peter’s arms and refused to let go of him for a whole minute. He _could’ve_ , though. He could’ve made some so comment about her being uncharacteristically emotional, but he didn’t. He just gave her a nod and a wobbly smile. And that’s exactly why he is allowed to make fun of her until the end of time.)

He’s Spider-Man’s guy in the chair and, in some way, he’s _MJ’s_ guy in the chair, too. He’s her sounding board, her mentor in dealing with the whole well-shit-one-of-the-most-important-people-in-my-life-is-actually-a-superhero-and-I-can’t-talk-to-anyone-about-it-because-it’s-a-secret shtick, and her trusted ally when it comes to keeping Peter (and his self-sacrificing tendencies) from overtaxing himself.

Most importantly, though, Ned is her friend – a quintessential, irreplaceable side of their equilateral friendship triangle as Peter, _the fucking nerd_ , likes to say – so getting used to seeing him on the weekends instead of every single day is probably going to take some time.

She sighs again and lifts her gaze to the back of May’s head.

God, she’s going to miss May.

The thing about May Parker (née Valenti) is that she has this uncanny ability to make you feel safe by just being in the same room with you. And sure, she’s bubbly and chaotic and way too talkative, but so are Peter and her Dad (and wow, that’s not creepy at all), so MJ probably has a soft spot for dorky extroverts. She’s probably mentally predisposed to love them/tolerate them a little more than other people.

(Sidenote: It’s their energy and the way they get excited about the most mundane things, and how they can sense that you’re upset about something you either can’t put into words yet or just don’t want to talk about. It’s how they give you space when you need it and how they smother you with affection once you’ve made it back to them.)

_Ach, fuck it._

She loves May. She really does.

She loves her because she can’t cook, because she tagged along and showed her support when MJ invited her to prom suit shopping, because she shares her love for art and political discourse, and because she has copies of _Alas, Babylon_ *** and _An American Marriage_ **** in her bookshelf. She loves her because her hugs are warm and comforting but never too tight, and because she raised her nephew to be this humble, adorable dumbass.

She loves her because she’s kind and considerate even though life kicked her to the ground and spat in her face when it stole away her husband. She loves her, she’s family, and losing her would feel a lot like losing her Mom all over again.

“We’re gonna be alright,” she says, and she may not fully believe it yet, but she knows she’s going to get there, “We just have to look on the bright side.”

“The bright side?”

“Yeah. Like, you somehow managed to get a single dorm room,” her lips spread into a smirk, “We’re gonna have _so much_ sex.”

“ _Em!_ ”

His reaction is priceless.

His eyes bugle. He stumbles, splutters, stumbles again, and chokes out a whiny noise that reminds her of that one time in February when her Dad was on a night shift and they had her apartment to themselves, leading them to have sex on her couch (there’s _no fucking way_ she’s going to call it ‘lovemaking’) while her favourite Tricky album was playing in the background.

(It was their third time, still sloppy and uncoordinated yet significantly less awkward, and it caused them to come to the conclusion that they both really like it when she’s on top.)

_Well._

Judging by the bright red spots that light up on Peter’s face, you could almost think he’s bad at sex, which, and this is very important to remember, is absofuckinglutely _not_ the case. He’s just bad at talking about it, be it in public or the nerdy realms of his own damn room… and that in itself is an inexplainable, ridiculously powerful turn-on.

Biting the inside of her left cheek, she gives into a small, amused huff as her body shakes with the pressing urge to laugh at him.

“What?” she tries – and fails – to feign innocence, quickening her pace just a bit and pulling him along; they pass a bodega similar to Mr Delmar’s, and she wonders if there are going to be any bodegas on campus, “It’s not like you haven’t been thinking about it, right?”

He clears his throat, his blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile a patchwork made of fond disbelief and severe embarrassment.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

He’s flushed to the point where he looks like he’s going to combust, and she loves him like this: shy, awkward, visibly scandalised by her bluntness but happy nonetheless. It makes her feel warm inside, like the blip never happened and she’s stuck in some cheesy, post mortem fantasy because a few years ago, she was so sure she’d never get to see this side of him.

A few years ago, they were barely acquaintances, barely talking to each other.

They had this thing where she would use every opportunity to stare at him with nerve-frying intensity until he would turn his head in her direction, flinch like her gaze was physically hurting him, and then re-focus on Ned, Liz, his locker combination, his lunch, or Mr Harrington’s ramblings about Nationals.

She didn’t know _why_ she was so hell-bent on watching him then: he was scrawny, his own skin seemed to repel him, and his jokes always brought in more annoyed eye rolls than actual laughter. On top of that, he was carrying the I-might-be-polite-but-I’m-still-a-loser badge and (because apparently, there’s some truth in those lame high school movies) he was hopelessly infatuated with _the_ most popular girl at Midtown.

He wasn’t worth MJ’s time and yet she couldn’t stop watching him. Not when he earned his place in AcaDec, not when he suddenly pulled a Neville Longbottom and became – pretty? athletic? attractive? – disturbingly nice to look at (ahem), and certainly not when his uncle died at the end of freshman year.

(She watched him even closer during those last weeks before summer break, and the sight of him – his bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, and slumped posture – only fuelled that sad, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.)

Come sophomore year, Spider-Man became a YouTube sensation and Peter started to act like a complete weirdo: he dropped out of several electives, came to class with bruises, black eyes, and no homework. He even disappeared for a whole fucking week due to some obligatory workshop for newly recruited Stark Industries interns, so just like Flash, MJ could tell that Peter was bullshitting everyone. And just _unlike_ Flash, she refrained from being a douchebag about it and decided to use her brain and observational skills to gather more information instead.

(In the end, it took her way longer than it should have. She’s not too proud of the fact that she was still only 67% sure by the time he finally came clean with her.)

“So,” he starts off once they’ve made it to Pesso’s, found a table suitable for six, and placed their orders (pistachio for her Dad, pineapple and coconut for her Nan, Cannoli and Cookie Dough for May, sour apple for Happy, Rocky Raspberry for her, and Roasted Marshmallow, whipped cream, and a shit ton of sugar sprinkles for her disgusting boyfriend), “Tonight, I’m gonna pick you up after my lab shift and then we’re gonna that place with the nice view and – ”

“It’s your last day of high school and they won’t give you a damn day off?” her Nan cuts in from her place at the far end of the table.

Peter blanches.

(It’s kinda his own fault for talking in codes because sure, MJ, May, and Happy know that ‘lab shift’ means ‘fighting criminals in spandex’ (and MJ knows that ‘going to a place with a nice view’ means ‘swinging to some rooftop for a late night snack’) but her Dad and her Nan, who’ve been doting on Peter since they first met him on Thanksgiving, have no idea what he’s _actually_ talking about.

Add to that the fact that MJ’s Nan _abhors_ corporate capitalism and the 1% with a passion no language can do justice, and you can probably see why she’s _somewhat_ opposed to the idea of her granddaughter’s boyfriend being supposedly exploited by what used to be the world’s biggest arms manufacturer.)

“W-Well, it’s – uh – it’s a very prestigious internship, sooo… ”

He trails off, flailing his hands with wide eyes.

Her Nan isn’t done.

“Harold!” she snaps, causing Happy to squirm uncomfortably in his seat and May to shift her eyes towards the ceiling with a quiet giggle, “What the hell is wrong with those yuppies at Stark Industries? Why can’t they leave the poor boy alone?”

Mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘Please leave me outta this’, Happy sighs and starts to fudge some insane excuse as to why the R&D guys need Peter (who keeps nodding his head as if his life is at stake) to spontaneously step in this afternoon.

Her Nan doesn’t seem to buy it – not in the fucking slightest – but then her ice cream arrives and MJ’s Dad asks Peter if he could come over next week and help him set up his new laptop, to which Peter replies enthusiastically because he’s a computer nerd and because he and her Dad get along pretty well since they have a lot in common (which, again, isn’t creepy at all.)

So, phew. Crisis adverted.

For now.

“I think she’s onto me,” he muses later, much later when they’re huddled up on the top of a concrete pylon and share a bag of gummy worms, “I mean, she’s super smart, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she already knows and just enjoys messing with me at this point,” he laughs, and in the glimmer of the street lights that flicker away underneath them, his eyes really do resemble exploding stars, “No wonder you guys are related.”

A smile blooms on her face.

She’s kind of a maniac, her Nan. Close to 85, still working part-time as a checkroom attendant at the Brant Foundation*****, and pretty much the life of a party. She’s an avid advocate of transparency in politics and the media, always the first to show up at a BLM or a Fridays For Future protest, and the current president of her bowling team. There’s nothing she doesn’t have an opinion on, no philosophical concept or political point of view she’d shrink back from bringing into question. 

With MJ’s Mom gone, it was her Nan who’d taught her about her Zimbabwean roots and the importance of staying true to yourself no matter of often and vehemently people try to change you. She’s her role model: strong, straightforward, and downright indestructible.

(She also has a _boy toy_ whom she met at a public reading by Alice Walker. His name is Zahid. He’s a sweet, recently retired optician who lives near Prospect Park, has a French bulldog named Poppy, and couldn’t make it to MJ’s graduation ceremony today because his grand-niece, Kamala, was graduating from middle school in Jersey City.)

“Do you hate lying to them?” he asks, his words almost absorbed by the gust of sticky summer wind that whips around them, “Does it bother you?”

She looks at him for a moment and welcomes the little stumble her heart does when she takes his hand and weaves their fingers together. He’s wearing his suit, so she can’t _really_ feel him, but that’s okay because tonight, he took her to her favourite place.

Her favourite bridge, actually.

It’s not Queensboro Bridge, where she caught him staring at her for the first time while she was listening to her Mom’s favourite Miles Davis song like she always does when she’s depressed, or Brooklyn Bridge, where they had to worm their way through throngs of sweaty tourists on their first official date last July.

It’s not Manhattan Bridge (where he fought a dude in a metal Rhino costume) or Williamsburg Bridge (where they hung out in a hammock made of spider-webs on their seventh date) or Bow Bridge (where they accidentally crashed a marriage proposal while they were on their way to the Museum of Natural History because there was a special exhibition on the future of space exploration he’d been dying to visit).

It’s not even Pulaski Bridge. 

It’s Koscuiuszko Bridge, where it’s cold and loud and windy. Where the traffic noise never dies down, and where romance is constantly duped by air pollution and the sound of helicopters and police sirens.

(Fucking Koscuiuszko Bridge, where Peter told her that he loved her for the very first time.)

“You wanna tell them you’re Spider-Man?”

“I guess I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, shrugging before he pops the last gummy worm into his mouth, “They’re important to you, so they’re important to me, too, you know?”

He gives her a lopsided smile and suddenly, there’s a lump in her throat, pulsing and throbbing and making her breath hitch when she thinks about how far they've come. How all the shit they had to go through broke them and put them back together. How it brought _them_ together even though they’re as different as day and fucking night.

(How she likes to pull his hair during sex and how he likes to play with hers in the afterglow. How he knows the lyrics to every Bloc Party song by heart while she prefers to sing along to the bassline.

How she’s a tea connoisseur and how he can’t tell the difference between a cup of Earl Grey and a cup of Darjeeling. How his bookshelf is crammed with comic books and how sometimes, she leaves the library with a trolley cart full of 17th century literature.

How they’ll end up in a house full of puppies and kittens one day because he’s obsessed with dogs while she’s obviously a cat person, and how their kids will be smart and stubborn and bubbly and chaotic and happy.)

How it all – the good stuff and the bad stuff – led them here. How she loves him and how she’s sure that she’s never going to _stop_ loving him. How she looked over her shoulder that day on Tower Bridge when she was on her way back to class and how she caught him watching her with that sappy smile of his. How she heard him laugh as he skipped through the ruins.

“Well,” she clears her throat to get rid of the stupid quiver in her voice, “As you said, my Nan probably already knows. And my Dad’s, like, totally crazy about you, but I guess he’s gonna cancel your bromance when he finds out that you almost dropped me during our first swing together.”

He gasps.

“That was _one time_ and I already told you that I was sorry! And it only happened because I was nervous! I still couldn’t believe you were actually okay with being my girlfr – ”

She cuts him off with a kiss because he’s dumb and cute and annoying and easily one of the best things that have ever happened to her. Because he’s good, because they’re good for each other, and because nothing is going to change that.

She can feel his fingers as they slide down the edge of her jaw and settle under her chin. They move in sync. He tastes like synthetic strawberry and smirks against her lips when she tugs at a curl behind his left ear.

“I’m okay with you telling them and I’m okay if you want to wait,” she says by the time they draw apart.

Something close to relief washes over his face and makes him sway forward in until their foreheads touch. The wind picks up again and she traps his hands between her palms.

“We’re in this together, Spider-Dork.”

It’s close to midnight. With his eyes closed, he lets out a small chuckle that gets lost in the nightly hum of the city they both love and grew up in. 

“I love you”, he says.

“I know.”

Another happy laugh. Another reminder that the warmth in her chest never left after they first met. It just kept growing and growing and growing.

“’Course you do.”

She giggles, kisses him again, pulls him in. 

She tells him she loves him, too, because she _does_ and because she likes how his whole face lights up in return. And when they swing back to her place, when they jump off the pylon and down into the darkness (only to be catapulted up in the air by his webs seconds later), she smiles and whoops along with him.

**Author's Note:**

> * According to my sources, 'amai' means 'mother' in Shona. If my translation is wrong and there are some native Shona speakers among you readers: Please don't hesitate to correct me!
> 
> ** _The Salt Eaters_ is an experimental novel by Toni Cade Bambara.
> 
> *** _Alas, Babylon_ is a science-fiction novel by Pat Frank.
> 
> **** _An American Marriage_ is a novel by Tayari Jones.
> 
> ***** The Brant Foundation is a private art collection with a museum in New York.
> 
> well. that's it for now. thank you for taking the time to read this fic and/or the entire series. i have a couple of deleted scenes left, which i might re-write and then post on this site.
> 
> cheerio!


End file.
